


Sea Change

by djarum99



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: F/M, cotbp, pirates of the caribbean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-22
Updated: 2009-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djarum99/pseuds/djarum99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My version of the events transpiring on Rumrunner's Island - J/E in the CotBP universe, acts of piracy, rum, and a song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea Change

Years after, when Elizabeth thought of that island, she could never remember a sunset, could barely recall the _Pearl's_ raven fade against the bright horizon. In her dreams it was always midnight beyond the halo of a driftwood blaze...and always, they danced.

The stars wheeled above her head and she was flying, her wings formed of firelight, contraband rum, and a pirate's delight in her song. Jack's hands were surprisingly gentle for a man who bore his scars, catching her waist and swinging her in looping circles, but he had lost agility to the last half of the bottle. At last, he stumbled closer to the fire, collapsed, and yanked her down beside him.

_"In all the world..."_ He shared his dreams, clever hands trailing stardust through the coils of the Serpent, stroking the wary Unicorn, trimming Carina's billowing sails - his voice awakened something sleeping deep within her soul. _"What the Black Pearl really is - is freedom..."_

Intoxicating, the passion in those wicked, sin-dark eyes; she wondered if a woman had ever kindled such a fire. For the space of a captive moment, she faltered in her deceit. What would it mean to live as he did, to sail without a country, to live without chains?

Images of Will's face and Barbossa's dagger rose unbidden, reduced her moonlight fantasy to ash. Jack stood between life and death, and she must continue to play him for a fool - the problem being that he wasn't. Not the man from the pages of her broadsheets, true, but formidable just the same, a quicksilver reprobate capable of quoting Shakespeare, and of matching wits with her point for point. Few men in her father's domain had proven such worthy opponents.

"You, Miss Swann, are Artemis incarnate. Huntress, goddess of the moon, and a virgin for all eternity. All you're lackin' is the bow and a stag."

"No, you've got it all wrong."

"No? Scandalous. I'd have sworn Will hadn't the-"

"I'd prowl the hills with lions, not a stag." He grinned at that, nodded approval as if he could see her, draped in furs and a paladin's leathers, stalking free - as if his eyes held a mirror for a woman unmasked. Captivating, and more than a little unnerving.

"And I will be married. I'm going to marry William Turner."

Another fiery swallow to drown Barbossa's gray-toothed grin, bloodstained Aztec gold, and precious hours wasted. She tipped the bottle again to banish Jack Sparrow, wild-maned and wanton and... predatory. Like a drunken lion - somehow she kept losing sight of that, beneath the smoky haze and the heat of his curious stare.

"Didn't say you wouldn't be married. 'Virgin' was the relevant term. 'Eunuch' bein' the other." Elegant fingers sketched a crude scissored gesture, and the taunt shone bright in his eyes

"Pig."

"No, no, no. In this slightly tipsy, dimly scatological mythic scenario - Jack Sparrow, dearie, would be the wolf."

Another grin, gold and feral - not so drunk then, after all. And a wolf, rather than a lion, sharp-eyed and hungry. Stripped of fey artifice by Barbossa's victorious exit, Jack fit the role, and that did not bode well for her plans.

Summoning every coquette's trick learned in dreary drawing rooms, endless cotillions, she continued the ruse - discovered that lifting her own bottle triggered his hand to rise and prompted another long swallow. Jack sparred and parried, took far fewer liberties than she had anticipated, and at last fell backward into sodden repose. Rum was truly a vile substance, and she had swallowed a great deal more than she had intended, enough to blur the listing palms and swirl nausea in her empty belly.

Determination and the moon's faint light guided her unsteady steps to the cache, the liquor's foil proving a useful shield against the feathered touch of unseen insects skittering across her feet. Three hours of sweat, dust and splinters, and a teetering pile of bottles, casks and broken crates stood ready for the torch. Surely Norrington and the crew of the _Dauntless_ could not fail to see the resulting signal. Once aboard, she would do whatever was necessary to ensure that the ship set a course for Isla de Muerta. For Will, who still lived - he must, though she could find no certainty in the icy regard of the stars.

Unwilling to chance Jack's sharp-eyed scrutiny should he awaken, she waded into the shallows and scrubbed herself free of cobwebs and grime. The sun had abandoned its hold on the sea to the moon's cool indifference, and she stumbled up the beach chilled to the bone, her shift clinging to her calves. Jack lay where he had fallen, curled towards the fire's embers, the spread of his hair a seaweed tangle against the diamond sand.

Victory mingled with the last giddy remnants of rum to send her laughter spinning, floating above wood-sparks and the hissing tide. She fell beside him, breathless and triumphant, until a cat's paw breeze coaxed the flames to cast him in gold and copper. Beneath the beaded braids and kohl, his face was...something more than handsome, sculpted in bone and shadows. Sleep softened his features, revealed symmetry hidden by his charlatan's grin.

Jack Sparrow was beautiful - in her experience, a gift of both roses and thorns. What would it mean, to wear beauty amongst the wolves?

_Is there any truth to those stories?_ Bitterness had lurked beneath the mockery in his gaze, anger, brittle as winter frost. She voiced her challenge, and Jack had rolled his sleeves, crumpled her childhood's parchment fantasy. An illusion spun from lampblack ink, of a legend who danced between hangmen and raindrops - reality lay beneath a thin veil of linen, written in gunpowder and savaged flesh.

Bemused, she stretched a fingertip to the lush curve of his lower lip, snatched it back, and found refuge in her forgotten bottle. Several inches of liquid amber remained, harsh and all too welcome as it seared her throat. The lesser of two evils, both unlikely to become habit, rum and pirates being in short supply amidst Port Royal society.

"Rude, not sharin'. Hand it over."

She jumped, twisted to face him again and nearly lost her hold on the glass - he was awake, propped on an elbow and far too alert.

"Here. Have it all." Panic and another gust of night air made her hand tremble, and he frowned, regarding her down the length of his nose as he tipped his head back, drank deep.

"Why are you wet? Again."

"I...felt sick. I thought bathing would clear my head."

"Silly chit. Best build up the fire, then. More wood back there." He flung a hand in the direction of her carefully constructed tower, started to rise, and she reached out to grasp his forearm.

"No!"

"Silly...girl, then. Tryin' to play the gentleman, here, distasteful and unusual as that may be, and the doing of such a rare and kindly thing calls for more wood, which is somewhere over there, and requires fetching. You're cold. Turn me loose."

"No, I'm - just let me...let me lie down. With you." She reached behind him to seize his vest, still hanging from the hilt of his sword, shifted closer and spread the thin covering over them both.

"With me. Well. A simpler solution than scurryin' about in the dark. Who's to argue? And yet somehow I feel that I should - can feel a slap in the offing." Jack remained half-upright, studying her warily until she shivered again. He lowered himself with a sigh echoed by chiming beads and silver, and flung an arm around her shoulders.

"C'mere, then."

He pulled her against him and tucked her head beneath his chin, wrapped her tight in rough wool and the circle of his arms. Breathing deep, she became acutely aware of his heartbeat, the play of muscle beneath the swell of her breasts, his scent of sweat and sea-wind. Only twice had she been this close to a man, and twice it had been him - a cruel irony, and surely she could fault the rum for making it feel so tolerable. In spite of his lean warmth, or perhaps because of it, she found herself shivering again.

"Silly chit, and still damp as a shipboard cat. Let me up - you need the fire."

"Call me that again and I will slap you - and no. Don't go."

"Why the devil not?"

She lifted her chin, saw suspicion clouding his eyes, and used the only weapon left in her arsenal. Slipping a hand beneath his hair, she kissed him, caught him with lips parted and another question on his tongue. The sound became a quizzical hum in his throat, his trickster's tongue found another purpose, and suddenly she realized just how dangerous this man might be - too late. One lightning spin, and she was on her back - a huntress, face to face with the wolf.

"Just what the bloody hell are you playin' at, Miss Swann?" His fingers shackled her wrists and he loomed above her, braids draping her shoulders and framing his face in darkness.

"I'm not...playing. I wanted to kiss you."

She had, and wanted to again, wanted another brazen taste of rum and lies and freedom. Desire had surely played no part her deception - and yet it burned, beneath the insolent weight of his body and the rising flush of shame.

"And why now, pray tell, when haulin' you from the sea bottom failed to earn me your first name?"

"Because I'm afraid. We could die here, or worse. The next passing ship may well be crewed by men who'd treat me as plunder. I wanted to know... Let me go." She fought to break his hold, stilled when he tightened his grip and trapped her knees between his thighs.

"Pirates, you mean. Men like me." He snaked a hand up her arm, traced the neckline of her shift with a precise fingertip, lingering above the curve of each breast. His eyes glittered dark just beyond the reach of firelight, intent on her face, measuring her response.

"Stop. I know you're not-"

"Oh, but I am. Ever kissed a man like that before? No? You have no idea what I am - but you, my darling, are a liar."

"Kiss me again, and tell me I'm lying." She watched her challenge alter his features, his grin fading only to resurface, bright and sly.

"Perhaps I'm wrong." Leaning in, he brushed his lips against her throat, his voice a velvet whisper.

"Can't lie when you don't what truth is, don't know the words for what I want to do to you." His tongue flicked across her earlobe, made her gasp, arc against him. No words - he was right, but her body knew this language, knew that his held an answer, wrapped in whipcord cunning and sun-gold heat.

"And what if I were to show you, Miss Swann - what of that?"

She froze, and Jack slipped beneath her defences yet again, kissing her gently, his mouth soft as rain. Another flick of his tongue, and he pulled away, smug and grinning.

"Sweet, so sweet...and not what satisfies, is it, love? Not what you want at all."

"How could a man like you know anything of what I want?"

"Because a man like me is _exactly_ what you want, Elizabeth. You want..." _his teeth, nipping at her throat,_ "rough hands, raw magic, desperation." _His mouth, gliding hot across her skin, finding her heartbeat, drinking it down..._

"You want to be taken by it, swept away."

"You're wrong...," but her hands drew him closer, wandered blood-warm valleys edging the fine-linked chain of his spine.

Jack stole another kiss, slow and deep, slid from her arms, flashed a weary satyr's grin, and rolled away in one fluid motion. "Wrong, yes, always and to enviable perfection - this game's over, Miss Swann. I win. No contest, really, since the rules were mine from the beginning. Never toss dice with a pirate, love."

He had risen to his knees, and she followed suit, cupping his face between her hands - a gesture rendered oddly intimate by the soft graze of his beard, the fit of his jaw against her palms. Neither of them had been wrong, and neither she nor Jack had lied. She was afraid, terrified, that the morning would bring an empty horizon, no hope of rescue, no hope for Will - or that rescue would come too late, followed by an empty tomorrow. A bland marriage, the duties of a formal household, and endless genteel discourse behind walls that blocked the sun. Living death, or the alternatives of killing thirst, their capture by men like Barbossa's, lacking the diversion of an Aztec curse.

Jack Sparrow was here, now, infuriating and enticing and certainly no legend. Vain, and he would prize a woman's open surrender above anything taken by trickery. A man who cast enchantment's bones with the practised hands of a thief - if she lost the throw, those hands would steal her future.

"No. It's not over. I want you to show me."

She clutched the fabric of her shift, tugged it free of her ankles, above her waist. Eyes widening in shock, Jack reached for her, fingers sketching a hapless genuflection - he jerked them back when she paused to stare him down, far bolder than she felt.

"What the devil are you doing, Lizzie?"

"Changing the rules."

She held her breath, raised her arms, cotton floating to the sand in a white-flag flutter as the stars sighed a warning - shivered again, beneath his stunned gaze and the realization that there would be no turning back.

"Put it back on - told you, the game's over, finis, ave atque vale. I can't...I don't want you."

Jack swayed, new anger darkening eyes that betrayed him, straying over her breasts and thighs.

"You're lying."

"And you'd bloody well better hope I keep it up. Down. That I continue to do so. If it's Norrington that finds us, I'd prefer to go to the gallows with me iron and danglies intact."

Tangling her hands in his hair when he stooped to retrieve her shift, she used her weight to pull him down, took his mouth again and found that he was right. The game was over, won and lost when she slipped her hand beneath his shirt, ceded to labyrinth scars, to the thrust of his need at her hip.

They broke apart panting, both of them uncertain. She smiled first and his devil's grin answered, wavering crooked with each ragged breath.

"A bargain, Miss Swann - I'll leave _you_ intact, a flawless and invisibly sullied Diana, and you'll not tell your commodore otherwise. Or your father. Anyone."

"A bargain. And just what is it you mean to-" His lips found a place at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, an undiscovered country falling to open-mouthed kisses and the sea-grass rasp of his beard.

"Hush. I'll show you, just as you asked, love, with infinite skill and masterful caution. Do we have an accord?"

"I suspect you're flattering yourself, yet again, but...oh. _Oh_..." Jack had lowered his head to a nipple, enveloping her in sweet, wet heat.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

At first, he took her with lips and tongue, used his hands only to keep her still, press her back against the sand. He built a mystery, painted the sun, threading fire between breasts and belly and the ache between her legs, drawing the binding tight until she burned, writhed. When he slid back to peel off his shirt, the sudden loss made her moan, a fragile sound swallowed by the hiss of her breath, of his, as he settled against her skin to skin.

"Easy, love. Wait. Trust me, let me make it last." Parting her thighs, Jack knelt between them, slid an arm beneath her hips and gathered her up, corded braids and silver trailing soft against her flesh. His hands found fire's threads again, followed unerring to where she needed him most, opening her gently to caress slick folds with an alchemist's fingers, the cool of his rings.

"So wet, and for me, Lizzie. For me. Almost worth a hanging, to come inside you."

"Jack, I-"

"Shh, sweetheart. Shh, no fear - I'll honour our bargain."

He lowered his mouth to her then, and the world narrowed to a joyous vortex, its axis the silk of his tongue. Fingertips spreading her wide, he plunged it deep, again and again, withdrew to stroke heat across a place that sent her soaring, flying again, wings breaking against the onslaught to dissolve in a liquid fall. She cried his name, the sound as strange as his tenderness when he cradled her close, rocking her until she lay quiet.

"There, then, there, and God, Lizzie, please - I need you to touch me. Need your hands."

Jack collapsed backwards, pulling her with him. Opening his breeches, he wove his fingers with hers and guided them to his cock.

"Tight. Like that. Like you'd be."

She had never touched a man like this, hard and wanting against her palm, the power of it stealing her breath yet again. The satin sheath slipped back with each fierce thrust, and he tensed, the flat plane of his belly rippling beneath her breasts. Reaching with her free hand, she cupped the dark weight between his legs and felt him tighten, a velvet shift beneath her fingers. Jack's head fell back, baring his throat, and she raised her lips to the hollow to taste his salt, the wild flow of his blood beneath. He shuddered and pulsed between their joined hands, gripping her wrist with force enough to bruise. When he released her, she curled into his side, her cheek against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heartbeat slowing in tandem with her own.

"Damnable wench."

"Stop calling me names. And, why? Wasn't that-?"

"Because it was. Because I won't forget." His eyes drifted shut, a sooty sweep of thick lashes and sea-smeared kohl.

"Do you want to?"

"No. So tired, Lizzie. Been days since I last slept."

"Rest, then. It's hours yet till dawn."

A lie, and in retrospect, her first in a night of truth's uneasy revelations - darkness faded to grey just an hour later. She studied him in sleep, trying to make sense of his patchwork contradictions, of her own, losing her way in the fog of fatigue and wayward memories of his mouth, his touch. Forgetting this man would not come easy, a price she had not foreseen.

Jack murmured uneasy when she slipped from his arms, stirred but did not wake. Gathering coals in dampened palm fronds, she staggered back to the pyre, set hope ablaze with a prayer for all lost sinners - for Will, for Jack, for her.

She would save Jack Sparrow, from the shackles and the noose. In the miles between here and home, in her father's power, her own - she would find a way, if Jack had not filched the _Dauntless_ from under the Royal Navy's nose before they reached Port Royal. This night...this night had been born of despair, folly, madness. Jack would never risk Norrington's wrath by disclosing such a secret, and she would bury it in guilty sand, never think of it again.

She would save Will, and if for one keening moment she felt the pull of dark-eyed freedom, a heartstring kindred drawing tight...it was merely an enchantment of rum and firelight, of the goddess of the moon.

 

_ave atque vale_ hello and goodbye


End file.
